As the Canoe Turns: A Floating Trailer Park

Brother was fortunate enough to have the holiday weekend off (whereas I had to work and spent the entire weekend preventing people from, oh, DYING!), so he went on a canoe trip with friends. It's something they do every year. They drive to some random camp ground, pitch tents, drink beer, canoe down an already over-crowded river with other like-minded individuals, drink beer, have delicious food cooked over an open fire, and drink beer.

Fortunately (and unfortunately), Missouri laws do not forbid people from operating a canoe while under the influence.

At any rate, Brother and friends go to some campground off the Niangua owned by some hippie in full dreads. He boasted 24 hour security presence (who worked from 9 to 4),a camp store (that opened an hour after the sign said they would open), and the apparent reputation that this was the premier canoe outfitter for the finer trailer parks of Springfield, Missouri. Did I mention that his little camp store also featured items you would find in a head shop?

For the most part, Brother and Co. have a good float. They are not a rowdy bunch, even with all the beer, they respect others, and they are in bed by a decent hour. The folks camping in the site next to them...not so much. They were loud, rude, obnoxious, and someone had bongo drums that they pounded until 3 in the morning. Matthew McConaughey unavailable for comment.

Early Sunday morning, Brother and Co. wake up to find that their entire cache of beer and food and a camera has been cleaned out by the miscreants next to them. Mostly underage kids with one adult, who is somebody's mother. This is the kind of Mom who tries to be one of those "cool" parents by buying alcohol for her precious Snowflake and friends, and sleeps with half of them.

Brother and Co. confront the pillagers, some ass-pounding is about to ensue. White Trash Villagers offer the remaining 4 beers that they didn't drink, and offer up an additional olive branch to make up for their apparently lack of intelligence, class, etc. Only their olive branch is more of 5 pointed-leaf variety. One 16 year old punk tries to get "gangsta" and puffs out his chest, spouting off some crap about just getting out of prison. Hey dumbass, being in juvenile detention getting ass-raped by some guy named Jimmy Jo doesn't constitute thug life. Wiener.

Brother and Co. decide to call the sheriff before there is bloodshed. Meaning the Wiener Troupe was about to need a collective blood transfusion.

Upon hearing that the sheriff is coming, White Trash Villagers haul ass to pack their crap and get the hell out of there, almost leaving a tent behind because they didn't want to bother with tearing it down. I'm guessing half the group had outstanding warrants.

Sheriff Bufard T. Justus shows up and catches the used-up Party Mom. Hilarity ensues as the sheriff takes down statements, and calls one of the WTV a "retarded pothead". He tosses one car when someone from Brother and Co. group mentions the peace offering of cannabis. Unfortunately, his search turns up empty as the weed was in the one car that managed to get away before the sheriff arrived.

No one gets arrested, the hippie that owns the camp ground doesn't offer an apology, citing that this sort of thing happens 2-3 times a year (I'd be willing to guess it happens more often than that when you let your campers terrorize your place of business). When Brother and Co. announce they will not be returning to his business, he gets pissy. I mean, if you own a business, what nerve some people have to actually expect you to run it! Douche.

I've not been on a canoe trip in a while, but I do plan on going on one. I definitely won't be using this guy. There's plenty of outfitters with responsible owners that will be more than happy to have my money.

In retrospect, I guess there are worse ways to spend your weekend, other than working. You could be camping at Camp Pothead, getting your crap stolen by people who swim in the shallow end of the gene pool (which resembles a plastic kiddie pool you buy from Walmart), and then dealing with Ozark's finest.

Dammit

Back in the day when Hurricane Katrina hit, I mentioned to Red (an ardent lover of New Orleans) that perhaps Mother Nature was merely taking back what was hers to begin with. She pooh-poohed my talk.

Now three years later, I can't help but remember that conversation. Maybe because no one got the hint the first time, she's sending the hand of God to take care of that city once and for all.

Which sucks because I'm supposed to go there next year for Mardi Gras.

Nagin is still a dumbass...

Vagina-in-Chief

I knew McCain would be announcing his running mate, but I didn't set my alarm clock to get up just to see who it was. I figured the news would still be dissecting it ad nauseum when I was getting ready for work. I was right.

I figured he would select either Romney or some other dude. Boy, was I wrong on both counts. He named a woman I hadn't even heard of. Hell, I don't think most anyone outside of Alaska has heard of this woman.

I find myself conflicted about this choice. Those for McCain slam Obama for lack of experience, and yet he selects someone who has less than 2 years experience as governor. She claims to have 13 years experience in government, but I really don't think being Wasilla City (population 6,715) councilwoman and mayor exactly prepares you for running an entire country. Now, I like McCain, but he isn't exactly a spring chicken. Due to his age and health, there is a high possibility that Palin could end up in the oval office by the time the 2012 elections roll around. Could she step up the plate and be the strong leader we need? Or just cave in and merely act as a puppet to those around her?

There's another thing that nags at me. 18million people voted for Hillary Clinton. Did McCain select Palin for the "vagina vote". Did he hope to sway those 18 million voters to his camp just to trade one vagina for another (because leave it to a man to think that all vaginas are the same). If that's the case, I think it's pretty arrogant on his part, and I would be insulted if I were a Clinton supporter.

I hope her nomination isn't just some gimmick. I'd like to think that voters are smarter than that, but all you have to do is look back on the past couple of elections to believe otherwise.

I'm still on the fence for this elections. I really like both candidates (Which has NEVER happened before. Hell, I've hated most candidates.). This election will find me listening and researching before I cast my vote. I never thought I would be saying this, but my vote could very well come down to the VP candidate. I'd also venture a guess that I won't be alone in my sentiment.

Whatever the case may be, this is a very exciting time to be witnessing. Either way, this is monumentally historic. It still comes down to the first: woman or African American in office.

Which is America more ready for?

We'll find out come November.

Being Thrust Back Into Hell

When I had my knee surgery back in May, I went to physical therapy by my house. After I got a couple of statements from the insurance company telling me what they were not going to pay for (a total of $750 that I'm going to have to pay...assholes), I decided to go to the physical therapy office closer to work because I wouldn't have to pay anything. Supplemental insurance rocks.

My first visit to the new physical therapist left me optimistic.

The second visit...not so much.

I scheduled my next one for a Monday morning, when I got off work. I could just go from work to the clinic, do my thing, and go home. Sadly, the nice lady I had previously was not working. Instead, I get Satan's Girlfriend.

Now, I would never try to tell a physical therapist how to do their jobs, but as I nurse, I know I would never walk into a patient's room, confess to "not having read their chart and not knowing much about their case" and proceed to do specialized care based only on the one diagnosis I did know about them. The same surgery on two different people can be wrought with two completely different outcomes based on history, complications, etc...

Satan's Girlfriend immediately puts me on some sort of squatting leg press thing. I squat and then she asks me why I'm flinching in excruciating pain.

Oh, I don't know, it could be the nest of nodules I have in the back of my knee, embedded in my tendons, you stupid twit.

It is then that I stop everything and proceed to tell her my knee history (which is extensive) up until this point. Sure, I had just a "lateral release of my patella", but let me tell you about the ten other things wrong with it before we charge full steam ahead with whatever cookie-cutter plan the physical therapy computer spits out.

So, she has me lay face down on a table so she can check out these nodules. She touches the back of my knee, briefly, and announces she feels no such nodules.

"Probably because you were feeling the wrong side of the knee." I suggested. I'm starting to get pissed. No matter, the Old Bat decides to continue with the session and has me do a couple benign strength-building things. As a grand finale, she puts me on this machine: a sleeve that fits around the leg and fills with ice-cold water. It's supposed to feel nice and reduce swelling. In the past, I've used this, and it was one of the things I looked forward to after my physical therapy. But that was for a different time, and a different type of knee surgery.

Einstein decides to crank the pressure up as high as it will go, hands me a little bell, and disappears. The pressure builds in the sleeve, which in turns pushes down on my patella, sending waves of pain coursing up and down my leg. I ring the bell. Brainiac pops up around the corner, sees me red-faced, and turns the pressure down by half. Meanwhile, the damage is done and my knee is making it's displeasure known. This is twenty minutes of hell.

After my time was up, I'm so angry, I can hardly speak. Happy Helperton chirps, "Now doesn't your leg feel better after that??"

I just shake my head and mumble something about it hurting worse. She's this close to having her face punched in, she just doesn't know...

Then, she becomes somewhat indignant, "Well, it didn't hurt your leg. It was just sore before."

I grabbed my keys and left, cancelling the remainder of my appointments, thinking about how much happier I would be if I could park a Ryder truck in front of their clinic.

Jeebus, and people wonder why I hate physical therapists. (Which is funny because an old high school crush of mine is now a physical therapist. Poor guy.) The last time I had physical therapy, the horse's ass would put me on a bike, and then disappear so he could talk to his girlfriend on the phone.

Today, I spoke with the office nurse of my ortho doc, and she chided me on not going to physical therapy. I told her about what happened, and get the standard sorry-spiel, but I still have to go to physical therapy. Doing it on my own is not acceptable, and I can probably expect a lecture from my ortho doc on my next visit. Never mind the fact that I've gotten more accomplished on my own than with the help of PT.

Could God hate me any more???

Tuesday Blather

I went to the blogger meet up on Tuesday. I almost didn't make it because I overslept by about 4 hours. This month, the meet up was at the 75th Street Brewery. I'd never been there, so a new an exciting experience for me!

A lot of the familiar faces were there, then some folks I hadn't met. Also a couple of Twitter-ers that I really had no clue about. Twittering has become this big, huge thing. I don't Twitter that often, unless I'm at work and it's a slow night. Sorry, Twitter-peeps, if I didn't know who you were.

I came home and for whatever reason, I decided to check on Little Roo. She didn't seem quite herself before I left. I found her in the closet, covered in her own drool. Her eyes were not very bright, and when she walked, it was as though she were a drunkard. Alarmed, I called Mom.

Deciding to take her to the emergency vet's office, I loaded her in the carrier and Mom and I went up north to the ER vet there. I don't know of any late night vet service in my neighborhood, and I had taken pets to this place in the past. I like the vet there, it's what I know.

I'd be lying if I said that Mom and I weren't sniffling the entire drive there. I was prepared for the worst.

We get there, and a lady with a huge ladle on a stick is trying to get a urine sample from her greyhound. A man with a Russian accent is in the waiting area to hear word on his Schnauzer. The vet takes Roo and disappears into the back. Mom and I sit on one of the benches in the waiting area. The owner of the greyhound enters with her urine specimen. Everyone in the waiting area is red-eyed.

A tech appears with a box holding the Schnauzer. Apparently, it died. She apologizes and the Russian guy takes the box and disappears into the night. Me, Mom, and Greyhound lady simultaneously start bawling. The Emergency Vet Clinic is a depressing place.

The vet appears and asks me questions about Roo's diabetic regimen. Apparently, her blood sugar was really low, and that is why she was acting funny. He gave her some special canned food to bring her sugar up and told me that she could be not-diabetic anymore and might not need insulin. Whatever the case, he told me to not give her any more until I get her looked at by my regular vet.

In a nutshell, she was going to be okay for the time being. She's 14 years old, so I know that she is in the twilight of her life. However, I'd like to think that she's got a couple of good years left in her.

I'm not ready to say good-bye just yet.

Nurse Follies: Depressing...

You know what's sad?

When a 700+ lb person is admitted for a Viagra overdose.

What's sad about it?

That he's apparently getting more action than you are.

It's Official

I'm the last person on the planet who hasn't seen Dark Knight. New Guy thinks it's hilarious because before the movie came out, it was "Dark Knight this..." and "Dark Knight that...".

I did make plans to go, then something always came up and I had to put off seeing the movie.

At this rate, by the time I actually do get around to seeing it, it will be showing at the dollar theater.

I already know how it ended. Some asshole already spoiled it for me. I don't care. I'm going to see it anyway.

Someday.

No Shoe For You!!

(Mom had her laser procedure yesterday, and she seems to be doing okay. We'll know in a couple weeks if it worked. Thanks to those who sent well-wishes. I will keep you updated.)

Today, I took Mom to lunch at Sweet Tomato seeing how yesterday she wouldn't have been able to manage a salad bar owing to the fact that she couldn't see (she'd miss her plate, she'd miss her mouth, etc...) As an afterthought, I grabbed my black Swedish clogs and tossed them into the car. These are the same clogs that Lucy decided to munch on so many moons ago. I saved the shoes, hoping that they could possibly be salvaged.

I drive through Brookside to get to ST, and one day while having breakfast with Indy, I noticed there was a shoe repair store. Great!

Mom stayed in the car while I grabbed the clogs and went inside. No one was at the front of the store, so I rang the little bell on the desk and waited. Still, no one came. A white-haired guy walked by, and I called out. He was either deaf or just ignoring me, because he just kept going. I rang the bell again. Then, that same guy appeared, looking annoyed.

I showed him the clogs, and he snatched the damaged one out of my hands (the other one was intact). Eyeballing the sole, he muttered something intelligible, and called out to the back room. The accent sounded Russian, but I didn't recognize anything the guy said. I have no idea what country he came from, other than the Land of Rudeness.

Another white-haired guy appears, and I have two stereotyped shoe cobblers before me with a combined age of 208, both discussing my clog in their native tongue. They decided they could repair it, and the first guy grabbed a note pad and asked me my name. I told him (just my first name) and he scowled, demanding I spell it for him.

If he thought my first name was complicated, he's going to shit when I tell him my last name, I thought.

So, I spelled out my first name H-E-A-T-H-E-R. Thankfully, he wasn't interested in my last name, but he did want my number. I told him and he jotted it down, ripping a ticket in half and handing my one half, stuffing the other half in the damaged clog.

Me: When will they be ready?
Surly Old Fart: Tomorrow. You come get tomorrow!
Me: There's no hurry to get them completed.
SOF: NO!! You come get tomorrow!!!

Then, he noticed something else wrong with the clog. He called to his partner again, who returned, and they began chattering about the other part of the damaged clog that they didn't notice before: the padded trim piece that covers the upper edge of the shoe.

"Where this part?" the first one demanded.
"The dog ate it." I replied. He wrinkled his nose.
"You no have it??"
"No! The dog ate it. It's gone. Eaten!" Jeebus, how more plainly can I explain this?

With a quickness that defied his age, he snatched the ticket half I was clutching in my hand and tossed my clogs across the counter at me, as if I just announced that they had recently been covered in elephant diarrhea.

"We no fix." he announced. "No shoe!" Then, he waved his hands as if shooing me away.

Asshole.

I don't expect the clogs to look the same pristine shape as to when I bought them. I just want them fixed so I can wear them again. They are work shoes. Ordinarily, I wouldn't care, but they are still relatively new. I paid a lot of money for my clogs, and I'd like to wear them again if I could. These are probably the best shoes on the planet for a nurse on her feet for 12 hours. I'd like to save them if I could. They don't have to look good, they only have to function.

I went back to the car and relayed the events to her. She told me that she knew of a shoe repair place up north that she had used in the past. Maybe I should take them there and see if they would even attempt to fix them. Mom used to work a job that made shoes, and after inspecting my damaged clog, surmised that it could be fixed.

As for the Surly Old Fart and his partner...I understand that in some cultures, rude and abrupt is how they communicate. However, I'd think that one would try to be nice so they can, oh I don't know, generate more business by positive word of mouth.

So, Shoe Repair Nazis in Brookside: You guys suck! Maybe if you pried whatever shoe that was wedged in your ass, you might garner a little more business.

I'm taking my clogs, and my dollars, elsewhere.

What's Going On

Well...

This weekend, Mom was coughing so much (from a sinus infection), that she jarred the vision in her left eye. This morning, I took her to an eye appointment. After a brief exam and history rundown by a tech that, while nice, was two seconds away from getting her ass handed to her by Yours Truly, Mom was seen by the doctor. A nice woman with a soft voice. She did her exam and became concerned. Very concerned. She practically freaked out.

She immediately made arrangements for Mom to see a retina specialist this afternoon. Just so you get a picture on the severity, when I call to make an appointment to see the retina specialist, he's booked solid and I usually have to wait 3 months to see him.

We go to the retina specialist at the office I usually go to. Unfortunately, the retina specialist I know and love cannot see her, but one of the others can. The old fart who founded that particular clinic. I think he was alive when dirt was clean. His bible is signed by the original author. You get my point.

Dr. Wet-Blanket does his exam and the findings are not good. How not good? She's got an appointment for laser-surgery-first-thing-in-the-morning-not-good. I will be taking her. Fortunately, such things are out-patient. But still, it's alarming. Mom's worried and upset. It didn't help that Dr. Wet-Blanket was not very comforting, condescending and an all-round douche. He came within minutes from death today. He just has no idea.

I'm optimistic that things will work out, but you never know with such things. I know what it is to lose your eyesight. Mom has never experienced it, and the thought terrifies her. It scares me, too.

I'm a hardass. She is not. I can cope with these sort of things. I've been coping with crap like this my entire life. It's almost like I was born just for that reason. Mom, on the other hand, is not like me.

So, pray to whatever God you pray to. Cast a spell. Hug a tree. Spread magic fairy dust. Whatever you do, think of my Mom tomorrow.

And pray that I don't throttle her doctor.

Passing Time at Walmart

The Rocket Scientist is returning to college this week, which is in Arizona. You may wonder why I refer to him (Mr. Recommendation's kid) as the Rocket Scientist. Well, he's pretty smart. Smart enough to win a full ride scholarship at some prestigious school in Arizona that teaches rocket-scientist stuff AND he interns for NASA during the school year.

The only problem I have with Rocket Scientist is that knowing he is as intelligent as he is, sometimes he's kind of an ass to other people (Social Idiot) because he thinks everyone else is retarded. He tries to be funny, but it comes off more insulting than anything. Brother has found himself wanting to kick his ass on more than one occasion.

Anyway, we went to dinner for Rocket Scientist's last night here. For the most part, he behaved himself.

After dinner, Mom needed to go to Walmart. She's been battling a nasty sinus infection, and to make things worse, she coughed so hard, she did something to her eyeball (popped blood vessels, I imagine). She wanted to get a cough suppressant so her eye wouldn't go flying out of her head during one of her coughing fits.

As you can imagine, trailer parks within a 10-mile radius had emptied, and they were all at Walmart. This meant we had to wait in line for a while at the checkout. Mr. Recommendation grabbed sodas and we drank as we waited.

An idea came to me. I'm not saying it was a good idea. I'm just saying it came to me, inspired by some of the stories I read about things seen at Walmart. Heather's Social Experiments: Back in Business.

"How much will you give me if I just rip out a huge belch right here?" I asked Mom. She was thoughtful, looked around here. We were surrounded by people, all waiting in various lines.

"Five dollars," she said.

And so it was on!

I have a talent that can both repulse and earn the deep admiration of men...my ability to eructate. I honed in on this talent when I was in my early 20's when Kant and I hung out with our group of friends and we had belching contests.

So, while standing in line, I took a couple pulls from the soda bottle, incorporating my reliable method for strong belches. I stood there and felt the bubbles churning in my stomach. I glanced around, and released.

It caused the floors to tremble. Not my finest work, but definitely noteworthy.

Not one person looked twice at me, not even glanced! It was as if it didn't happen. My suspicions were confirmed. You can only do this at Walmart. Not Target. Not Costco. Definitely not Hy-Vee. Maybe Sam's Club, but definitely at Walmart.

Where else can you go and behave like a social disease and no one even thinks twice?

I got my five dollars.

Another Fun Link!!

Say what you will about Walmart, but it offers the best of people-watching opportunities short of going to the county fair. However, the county fair only rolls around once a year. Walmart is open 24 hours a day!!

I found this link in a comment over at Michelle's place. My unhealthy obsession with trailer parks aside, Walmart does run a close second to observations of the WT species. You know, in case there's no noteworthy activity in the trailer park, or I don't want to waste gas.

A mix of horror and amusement can be found on that site. Just make sure you haven't eaten just before you read the stories. If you have a weak constitution, you may blow chunks. And by chunks, I don't mean the family dog (named Chunks).

Words Fail Me

Totally awesome Erin posted this link featuring a slide show of a couple's wedding at a Georgia Waffle House. I posted a comment, then I watched the slide show.

I. Have. No. Words!!

Some time ago, I blogged about the charming couple who had their wedding at QuickTrip (I'm still waiting for Indy to turn over the pics). Well, folks, in the grand scheme of ghetto fabulousness, this wedding just takes the cake...or waffle, if you prefer. It blows right past ghetto fabulousness and lands squarely into the upper echelons of the Trailer Park Society.

Just when I thought it was bad, the next picture would pop up and it would be worse. The smoking bride. The milk crate seats. The Crispy Christian t-shirts. The wedding rings in the waffle. It's all so hard to take in, my mind is reeling. Reeling!!

So, check out the link and tell me what your thoughts are. I guarantee you won't be disappointed.

Someone Call the Fashion Police!

On Wednesdays, Mom and I usually go to Sweet Tomato. Brother and Mr. Recommendation have gone with us in the past, neither of them liked it. Brother says salad bars are more a woman's thing, so Mom and I usually go on our own. It's become our Wednesday thing. I still invite Brother to go, and it's usually met with a snort and some comment about not wanting to visit the Red Vagina...his name for the restaurant.

I take 63rd street to get there. While at a stop light at 63rd and Swope Parkway, there was a boy, couldn't have been older than 12, walking his bicycle up the sidewalk, and walking like he had a corn cob shoved up his butt. Mom and I stopped talking and watched. It wasn't too long before we understood why the kid was walking funny. His pants, worn ridiculously low as the trend is now, kept falling down to his ankles. I always did wonder how guy who wore their pants this way kept the very same thing from happening to them.

Anyway, the boy would take a couple step, using both hands to secure the bike, and his pants would fall down. He'd drop the bike, pull his pants up, pick up the bike, take two steps, and his pants would fall down again. To make things even more complicated, he was also trying to carry a baseball glove. Mom and just laughed and laughed. We couldn't help it. I'm sure we were not alone in our amusement, there was a lot of traffic. You can't help but notice someone who's pants won't stay on.

The boy eventually noticed a bunch of people watching, namely two pasty white women in a PT Cruiser laughing at his wardrobe malfunction. He got a sheepish grin on his face, hopped on his bike and pedaled away. At least the bicycle seat kept his pants from falling down again.

Just FYI: pants worn so low that we can see your skid marks is not an appealing look that makes women swoon. (Hopefully this boy will traumatized by women laughing at him that he never makes this fatal error in fashion judgement again.) This makes you look like you can't dress yourself, and we really are not interested in what color underwear you have on. For Godsakes, get a belt!

Or even better...get a pair of pants that actually fit.

A Trip Down Memory Lane

My friend, Kant, posted this meme, and I thought I would return the favor. Lots of you have met me, some of you haven't. Post anyway.

Here is how the game is played:
1) Think of a memory about me. It could be one with us together, one you heard about or one you witnessed.
2) Leave said memory in the comments. Anything is fair game but be nice! :-)
3) Post the instructions on your blog so I can return the favor!

A Change of Plans

Wednesday night, I was supposed to host a bbq at my house for a committee that I am part of at work. We meet once a month, usually at some restaurant, and discuss the hundreds of ways we can make our unit the most awesome place to work.

I suspect that sometimes (okay, most of the time), we use the meet up as an excuse to eat/drink.

Really. It takes almost six months of meetings to add an extra garbage can in the break room. Gotta love bureaucracy.

So, I volunteered to offer up my humble abode to be the location of this months drink-fest, er, I mean, meeting. It was to be a meeting, and sort of an end-of-summer kick-off. The chairperson was concerned. She has a nervous breakdown whenever the meeting strays from the agenda (which she tells us she spends 30 minutes typing up).

She's as anal as I am laid back. She has a clear, concise plan to get from point A to point B and we MUST FOLLOW THE PLAN. Failure to follow the plan will be an open invite for the Apocalypse and we WILL ALL DIE A HORRIBLE AND PAINFUL DEATH!!!

I, on the other hand, don't care how we get from point A to point B, just as long as we get there...eventually. It's sort of my attitude towards sex. I like to be consistent in all things.

(The truly amusing part is that I'm chair-elect of this committee, which means, the whole thing falls into my command in 2009. That's like turning over White House interior decoration from Martha Stuart to Rosanne Barr.)

Imagine my not-surprise when I checked my work email this morning and there was an email from her saying that she has rescheduled the meeting to next week, and we are meeting at some restaurant, and we may have next month's meeting at my house.

While it was an eye-rolling moment (glad I waited until the last minute to buy bbq stuff), it wasn't all that shocking. I was actually relieved because I currently have a plywood hallway because we are in the middle of putting down laminate flooring. I'd rather have that done before I entertain. No one wants to feel like they are at a party hosted by Bob the Builder. Unless, of course, it is hosted by Bob the Builder.

Rather than have a meeting-bbq next month, I'd just soon forgo the meeting, and just have the bbq at my house. Who wants to attend a bbq and have to listen to how well the new break room garbage can is functioning before you start having fun? Not me.

So, another party at my house. I'm sure it won't be to Christmas party proportions, but I'm sure it will be fun anyway. Nurses work hard. We play harder. We deserve it.

Going for the Gold

I missed the opening ceremonies of the Olympics, which is disappointing. That's usually the only good part of the entire games.

I'm all for the Olympics and stuff, but I miss the days when they were held every 8 years instead of every 4. Now, you don't even get the chance to miss them before they are upon us again.

I came home from work the other morning and Brother was laying on the couch watching some dude in a top hat trotting around a little circle on a horse. This was an Olympic event. Seriously. A nail biter of an event for certain, not to mention the horse was doing all the work. As boring a it was, I was sucked into watching it, in much of the same way Brother was. Subliminal tranquilizer. Sort of like curling.

It made me think of all the odd events that now pass for Olympic sport. Trampoline? Table Tennis (which is really Ping-Pong)? Badminton?? And the biathlon. Tell me, where else can you go to find a sport that puts cross-country skiing with sharp-shooting? I'm sure if the Ancient Romans could see that sport, they would collectively scratch their heads and wonder, "What the..."

I'm convinced some of these pud events were added so even nerds could compete and make their respective countries proud. And possibly get laid. This would be the only explanation as to why they are trying to make chess an Olympic sport.

Nerd: I won the gold medal in chess!
Hot Chic: That's such a turn-on. Let's go have sex!

Don't forget the modern pentathlon which takes retardedness a step further and goes as follows: shooting (an air gun), fencing, then you swim, then you get out of the pool and get on a horse and ride through an obstacle course (the challenge with this part is that it's an unknown horse). But wait! There's more. After you've done these things, then you get to run 3000 meters.

I'm convinced that this event was started by drunk guys. They all got together and tried to one-up each other after drinking a case of Jagermeister, and the end result being the much-loved and often celebrated pentathlon. You see these botards all the time. They are the ones who get drunk, spin around in a tight circle with their forehead on a baseball bat, and then they try to see who can run the fastest to the nearest Piggly Wiggly for more beer without throwing up.

Thank God they retired the Tug-o-War as an Olympic event. That sport just made the entire Olympics look ridiculous.

No More Donuts

New Guy and I were on one our marathon phone calls when he likened something to a glazed donut. Apparently, it's a rule of thumb. I'm not going to go into detail, but I will say it's sexual in nature.

I asked Indy later about it. He confirmed the glazed donut analogy.

I'm never eating a Krispy Kreme donut ever again.

What's That Noise???

Did you hear that???

That is the sound of John Edwards' career going down the crapper.

Because X-Man at Hip Suburban White Guy covered the subject well, I won't go into a long tirade about how I think that John Edwards is the World's Biggest Douchenozzle and how I hope that his pecker turns black and falls off. I also won't go into detail about how I think his wife, Elizabeth, should consider haunting him for a couple years after she dies. Really. She should seriously consider it. To have to be cancer's bitch and deal with an Asstriscuit of a husband is simply too much for one woman to bear. Hopefully, Elizabeth Edwards has an industrial sized can of whoopass to use on her husband. He deserves, and then some. Which is why I strongly urge the haunting.

What does it matter if he had an affair? Nothing to me personally, but this is the guy who wanted to be president. Why would I want a guy who fucks around on his terminally ill wife to lead my country?? Shit, if he lacks the capacity for a moral compass now, what the hell could we expect from him in the White House?? Ass. And here I thought he was the most benign of all the candidates.

Who knows...maybe this affair was his way of coping. I've seen the same situation at work where the spouse cheats on a dying family member. But that usually earns you The Evil Death Look from the entire nursing staff.

Somewhere, Bill Clinton is thinking, "This guy makes me look like a Boy Scout."

I think what astounds me the most about the whole situation is that this story broke a while ago. Yes, it was by a tabloid (National Enquirer) BUT they did manage to essentially catch the guy in the act at a hotel (to which he ran away from photogs and hid in a bathroom...which should speak volumes as to what kind of pussy he is). That's not even the astounding part. The part that resonates with me is that even with proof, most all major news networks refused to even look into the story. Sometimes, it appeared that they tried to sweep it under the rug. But now that he's admitted to it, you can't turn on any channel without hearing them go over it. Ad nauseum.

In the end, I guess it doesn't matter when the story came out. As Kant's grandma once said to me, "It all comes out in the wash." And it did. Even though The Enquirer is the equivalent of toilet paper, their editor does deserve a opportunity to say, "I told you so!!"

It still doesn't make me want to read their mag. They still suck. Now they can go back to reporting about the Loch Ness Monster.

And speaking of suck, it sucks to be John Edwards right now. I hope Rielle Hunter's bootwagga held all the secrets to life's mysteries in addition to the Powerball numbers for the next ten years, because loosing it all is so not worth a piece of tail.

Friday Night Off and Other Blather

So, I get out of bed and do the regular crap I do before I go in to work. Stop by Starbucks for something strong because I didn't get a lot of sleep. I get to work, and the day charge nurse looks at me as though I just crawled out of her nose. I wasn't on the schedule. I guess I asked for the night off last month. Only I forgot what I needed the night off for.

I went home and went back to bed.

Now, I'm up, and it's late. I've been cleaning around the house, and tomorrow Mr. Recommendation is coming over and we will begin The Hallway Project. Hank has eaten the carpet padding from two of the stairs, so I decided to just rip up the carpet and put laminate flooring down, making it dog-proof. The bedrooms will still be carpeted, but at least I will have eliminated carpet in all the high-traffic areas. Besides, I now have a barf stain in the hallway. Someone puked at some point, and no one is owning up to it. Despite my best efforts with the carpet steamer, it won't come out. Bile is like that.

Thursday night, I had a hankering for a beverage, so I went to Starbucks for something tasty. While I was at the window, a long line of siren-equipped vehicles passed by. It wasn't until this morning I found out that they were all heading for the big shoot-out at Tool Shed. I've driven by Tool Shed, and I gather it mostly a bar for rough-type individuals. What can you expect from a bar that sits in front of a no-tell motel??

I currently have the World's Biggest Headache. I should just put my pajamas back on and retire for the rest of the night.

Tomorrow, life returns to normal.

Proof of God's Existence

Good news this Sunday morning!

I just read that a fire broke out at the Westboro Baptist Church. For those of you who live under a rock and have no idea what the Westboro Baptist Church is, just google their name and you find all kinds of golden nuggets of info on these douche bags.

At any rate, their garage was on fire, and arson is suspected. Naturally, the Phelps family is going to be screaming about this for a while.

I'd really like to know how Topeka plans on finding who did it. Are they going to send their best men to work on the case, or assign the asshat that finished last in his fire investigation classes? And how do you narrow down the suspect when the entire country hates your guts enough to set fire to your church. I think it would be easier to list the people least likely to set fire to the WBC.

Maybe it wasn't arson at all. Maybe God smote their garage with a lightening bolt. Or maybe someone was in the garage smoking something they shouldn't have been. Or maybe this is all part of an insurance scam to raise money for that big-assed lawsuit they lost. Damages has been estimated at around $10K. Looks like the family is going to have to start more fires because at this rate, it will take them forever to pay off the $11 million judgement.

Karma's a bitch. Next time, I'm praying for a meteor...and hoping the family is home when it hits.

Tossing Salad

Logtar posted a little meme about salad. I don't know why he's so interested in salad, but I thought I would answer his questions because I don't have anything interesting to post at this time.

1. Without internet searching, does Caesar salad have fish on it? To my knowledge, caesar salad has anchovies, but it's ground up small and in the dressing and gives it it's tangy flavor. As long as I don't think about the anchovies, I can eat Caesar salad without gagging.

2. Can you have just a salad as a meal? Yes...as long as it's interesting.

3. What is your favorite dressing? Raspberry Vinagrette is my dressing du jour.

4. When was the last time you admitted you were wrong? I don't remember...but I'm sure you could find it on this blog.

5. Do you remember the last time you climbed a tree? That would be the last singles canoe trip I put together. A bunch of us climbed a tree and had our picture taken because we were big dorks like that.